


To Begin Again

by Duo_Swords



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duo_Swords/pseuds/Duo_Swords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Malik Al-Sayf, Altair Ibn-La'Ahad had always acted strange in a way uncommon for assassins in the brotherhood. He had shrugged it off, thinking that it was probably just one of his many qwerks.</p><p>But, after a near fatal attack, Altair began acting much stranger to everyone, especially towards Malik. What could have caused such a change?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Begin Again

He is blind, he swears he is blind, for he could see nothing but white. His eyes screws shut because darkness is less disquieting than the blinding white fire. His teeth are clenched tight enough to lock his jaw, trapping any noise within. He is glad of it. He had seen men openly weeping during the ceremony and remembered his father's tight-lipped frown.

 _Those men will not live past a fortnight_ , his father had said, no pity in those steel blue eyes. After hearing his father's words, he vowed never to cry when it was his time. He had kept his promise.

Through the tinny noise in his ears, he could vaguely register the Mentor's voice, soft and distant. He strained his ears past the tinny and his whirling nerves.

"-with this pledge to the cause-"

It was no use, his mind was turning in on itself as the sweat poured from every orifice. It was a cool summer's day.

Rauf, their combat instructor and teacher, had rounded all novices before the ceremony, "for most, it will be quick, so quick that you will not feel it at first. You are the lucky ones, ones to be envied. For others, it will be slow, painful, and you will feel your flesh screaming hot fire. Pray to your gods if you do."

He bit his lower lip. _Fuck Rauf and his lessons!_ Quick doesn't equate to painless! Nevertheless, he willed his mind to collect itself and strained to discern the words he was hearing but not registering.

"-we welcome our new brothers to Brotherhood."

Here came a loud uproar of approval, one that always accompanied the end of Al Mualim's grand speeches. A robe was draped over his shoulders and, all at once, wave of peace he never known crowded out the white pain and tinny noise. He stared, mystified, at the white hood and robe that hung around him like a second skin.

He looked down at his newly dismembered hand. Bandages were wound tightly around what was once a finger. He hadn't remembered when the wound was wrapped but he didn't care to remember. All his life, he had worked, sparred, _bled_ for this moment. This sacred sacrifice.

Rough hands clasped his shoulder, helping him rise. He looked up at his fellow assassin, the man tasked for the dismemberment, as his new brother gave his shoulder a tight squeeze, "Welcome Malik Al-Sayf. Welcome to the Brotherhood."

He could not remember walking off the stage or stumbling into the crowd but he felt, for the second time today, a strong hand clasp his shoulder, "Safety and peace, _Assassin_."

Malik turned to his little brother, grin meeting grin, as Kadar reached forward to embrace him. Today, the title had become cemented in reality. Soon, it would be spat out and cursed upon by every frustrated guard and furious Templar, but, for now, Malik felt as if the sun would never fall from the sky.

"How do you fare, brother," Kadar pulled back, concern etched deep lines his young features.

"I feel no fever at present, but we can only tell with time," Malik smiled but it came out small and unconvincing. Though the pain had lessened to a dull ache from the adrenaline and the excitement, they both knew that things could go wrong quickly. Blood poisoning, as rare as it was, claimed many an assassin every season.

During his novice years, his class had passed a cart full of such corpses. Rauf had stopped the class to give them a brief lecture on the importance of physical health or some such nonsense, but all Malik remembered were the dark fingernails, clammy arms, and the thick black vein that trailed from palm to chest like the winding black branches of a dead tree.

"Do not fear, Kadar," Malik said with utmost sincerity, "if you worry so, I will renounce the brotherhood and take it upon myself to become a healer instead."

"You would not last long. If they see how terrible you are at cooking herbs as you are at rice, they would surely faint from fright."

Malik pulled away from his brother in mock offense, "you said my rice was delicious, the best you've ever had."

"Alas," Kadar sighed in a way that would have fooled anyone, had they not seen the small twitch at the ends of his lips, "as your brother and your only friend, I must tolerate your cooking without complaint."

Malik could no longer hold in his grin. He smacked his brother on the side of the head with his good hand, "my rice is not awful."

"I have to admit, it is acceptable on occasion," Kadar nodded in false condescension before positively beaming with all his youth and boyish charm. It was little wonder how he was so popular with the girls at the market. Then, Kadar's unique blue eyes (another feature popular with said girls) shone with a mischievous glimmer, "Now that you're privy to the going ons of fellow assassins, you must tell me all about Altair's exploits."

Malik felt the earlier peace fall quickly, replace by the dull ache of a familiar pounding irradiation. Like many young boys his age, Kadar was a very impressionable youth. After their father's death, Malik had accepted and even encouraged Kadar to take an interest in the lives of older, experienced assassins. However, he did not approve of Kadar's current obsession.

Kadar chattered on, not waiting for his brother's response. "Do you know that there are rumors of Altair's possible ascension to the rank of Master Assassin? So quick after he took the white pledge only nine days before! If these rumours hold true, Altair would be the youngest Master Assassin the order ever had!" Kadar spoke with a reverence the boy should show towards Allah, not a mere mortal.

The words practically murdered Malik's good mood. He groaned, rubbing his temples, feeling the vacant nothingness between his fingers stronger than he had since it was taken, "Please, brother. Do not ruin this brilliant day with the mere mention of _his_ name."

"But Malik! You must have heard of Altair's latest mission! Why Jal-"

"I do not wish to hear of it! Altair alienates every man in the brotherhood, even to go as far as to publicly shaming his brothers and declaring their incompetence in the field! He is as arrogant as he is brash! It was blind luck and biased favor that Altair managed to convince our Mentor to give him the white pledge before the rest of us, not skill. You do well to stay away from such nonsense."

"Malik, your jealousy of Altair is foolish. Ev-"

"Enough! Do not speak another word," he grimaced, hating himself for yelling at his brother. But if he did not act this day, he would the next. He tired of this endless prattle. His brother was of 17 years, almost a man grown. He would not watch Kadar die for his blind faith in some reckless fool.

"Malik!"

"What! You are trying my patience!"

Kadar looked down to his feet as if he couldn't say his next words face to face, "Father would have been proud."

A fond smile wormed it's way through the anger and annoyance, "Thank you, Kadar."

They shared a look before Kadar threw up his hands, "well, I have duties to attend to. Can't laze around like you all day!"

"Do not think that I have forgotten this talk! If I hear you speak to another of his wretched existence, I will make you rue the day you were born! Don't get into trouble!" Malik shouted as the younger bounded off to complete whatever duties had been assigned to him. He gave a long sigh. Today will not be the end of Altair. He was sure to hear the man's name come supper time.

Once he saw his brother disappear behind one of the many stone buildings, peace fell upon him again. It was all emcompassing, washing away the white pain from his severed finger, his worldly troubles, his worry for his brother. He wondered if the others felt as such after taking the white pledge.

Against his better judgement, his mind wandered towards Altair. The bastard did no more then flinch when he took his pledge. Not a sound escaped him. And, at the end of the ceremony, he had walked straight to Al Mualim and calmly asked when he could begin.  

However, in his fog of peace, he had found admiring qualities the foolish assassin possessed that he found in no other. Altair was nothing if not skilled, hardworking, and dedicated to the cause.

Even as a novice, Malik had stumbled upon the fool, sharpening his many blades, at the dead of night. When he had asked, Altair answered, "we should always be ready for an attack, even while we live in relative peace. Full-bodied Assassins are always away on some mission or another. It falls to us to protect Maysaf in the event of an attack."

Before he knew it, his legs led him into the large courtyard behind the Mentor's library. It was deserted, fitting for this time of day. You were either in the training grounds, doing various chores, on a mission, or in the markets at this bustling hour.

Having no other things to occupy him (all new assassins were given two days of rest after the ceremony), Malik strolled through the grassy field and sat down in one of the benches under the shade, admiring the summer desert flowers at full bloom.

In the summer with it's freak rains, the wells in the back of the courtyard would sometimes overflow. Malik had stumbled across this phenomenon during his novice years when he was ordered draw water for his elders.

The overflow, though convenient for those who just came for a quick sip, was very tedious affair for the novices who wished to draw because there was always the issue of water wear on the rope or mold building on the wooden bucket underneath. It was the duty of the novices who drew to pull out the bucket in such occasions.

Malik had spent a good quarter of the day pulling the bucket out of the well before leaving with his aforementioned assignment. He was told off for his tardiness.

He smiled in cool remembrance of his novice days. Days, such as those, were long behind him. From this day forward, he was no longer responsible for such menial tasks. He would follow in the steps of his father and the assassins before him.

A splash caught his mind out of it's wanderings and he chuckled. This summer had no small amount of rain and he could just imagine the novice struggling with the task of drawing water. He stood up, feeling charitable in his heightened state of peace. The strength of two is always better than one.

However, when he strolled down the stairs and under a canapé near the well, he stopped. He saw no gray hood but two white ones. One was splashing wildly, head sinking deeper into the stone structure overflowing with water; the other, holding the first down, muscles rippling underneath the white fabric. They were both drenched in deep red.

Malik quickly sprung forward in long strides, grabbing the attacker by the white fabric of his hood and threw him to the floor. The attacker let out a sharp cry of both surprise and anger, one arm to the ground to steady himself, when Malik shoved a blade at the man's throat, cutting skin, "Who are you? Why are you harming a brother?"

Beneath the hood, Malik saw thick lips widening into a snarl. The faceless attacker shoved aside Malik's blade, cutting the throat deeply in the process, before grabbing and twisting Malik's newly dismembered hand.

White fire blinded Malik as he thrusted his knife at his attacker until he felt something warm and wet splash against his hand and face. He heard a cry and a string of curses before feeling something sharp piercing his own torso. Malik keeled over in pain, white still blotting his vision as the unknown assassin stumbled away from him and out of reach.

It had been a novice mistake; he shouldn't have hesitated to stab the false assassin in the leg to prevent escape. He vigorously blinked away the white spots but he knew it was useless, the attacker was gone.

He stood, weakly, assessing the damage. The cut on his side wasn't deep for the thick cowhide belt took the brunt of the damage, but his hand pulsed angrily at the ill treatment it received. Malik pulled back the bandage, wincing at the touch, to reveal red inflamed skin. He groaned, Kadar is going to be furious with him tonight.

He turned, quickly forgetting any excuses he was currently forging.

The other white hood was still, head sinking deeper into well. In two panicked strides, Malik pulled the second assassin out and peeled back the hood. The face was a white as milk. A scar, thin, perpendicular to blue lips, shown as a beacon against the pale skin.

Before Malik could react, the assassin grabbed his neck with surprising force, shoving him to his back so hard that he could see stars. Malik gasped, eyes flying open to see two wide amber ones staring down at him.

"Malik," the other rasped, surprised and- was that relief?- before easing the grip around his neck and collapsing on top of him.

There Malik lay, stunned, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. The assassin who was attacked, the assassin laying on top of him this very moment, was none other than Altair Ibn-La'Ahad. Oh, Kadar is going to be more than furious with him.


End file.
